


At the end of things

by Taikida



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taikida/pseuds/Taikida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sight filled Aramis with ice, d'Artagnan stood twelve feet from Athos, pistols aiming at each other. Athos looked flabbergasted, his hand was shaking ever so slightly, as did d'Artagnan's and the Gascon actually looked teary-eyed, as he kept his barrel on his friend.</p><p>Reposted since idiot me managed to delete it somehow...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'I have to kill him, tell everyone he is dead.' it was all d'Artagnan's note said but Aramis read the scribbled note twice, the ink hadn't been sanded so some of the letters were smeared, but it was d'Artagnan's handwriting. The boy from the court of Miracles that had given the musketeer the message told him that he was to hurry to the market. Aramis spun around, shouted for Porthos as he ran towards the gates at top speed, never looking back as the dark-skinned man joined him as they hurried towards the market. Horror mixing with anticipation filled Aramis' core as they neared the market, hearing shouts of horror and Athos booming voice. The sight was actually even worse filling Aramis with ice, d'Artagnan stood twelve feet from Athos, pistols aiming at each other. Athos looked flabbergasted, his hand was shaking ever so slightly, as did d'Artagnan's and the Gascon actually looked teary-eyed, as he kept his barrel on his friend.

“d'Artagnan! Take sense of your self!” Athos called, plead in his voice, trying to talk the youngster out of this horrible situation.

“What are you doing? You are friends!”

“What is going on?!” Porthos yelled, he too trying to dismantle the tense situation, but he avoided moving into the line of fire, Aramis started towards d'Artagnan but the young man nodded ever so slightly at him as he fired his weapon. Aramis heard a second weapon discharge, and he looked back at Athos, eyes widened in shock as Athos knees gave out and he fell backwards, Porthos crying out his name as he darted forward to catch the man before he hit the street. Aramis eyes found d'Artagnan again, the younger man's face was distorted in pain and his hands covered his right side, blood was seeping through his fingers, but he looked at Aramis as he backed away, turned and left as quickly as he could move, Aramis stood dumbfounded, staring at the d'Artagnan's pistol, abandoned on the street.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted for his attention, and he shook his head and hurried over to his friends, Porthos cradled Athos against his chest, his hand pressed to a bleeding wound in Athos side. It wasn't bleeding enough, the location, just below Athos right armpit, on that distance, he should already be dead, 'tell everyone he is dead,' the note, Aramis still had it inside his jacket. Someone had forced the Gascon to do this, he wouldn't have shot Athos.

“Carry him Porthos, we need to get him back to the garrison,” Aramis ordered as he searched the mass of curious people for anyone he recognized. d'Artagnan was long gone and the Hispanic man saw no familiar faces, and as he helped Porthos lift their wounded friend and start back towards the garrison. Aramis leaned in towards Porthos, the man was silently seething with anger, and Aramis wished to diffuse it, needed to explain as much as he dared even if he didn't have the entire story himself.

“Porthos, we need to make the others believe that Athos is dead,” he whispered to the burly musketeer, the glare he received in turn nearly made him shiver, “there is more to d'Artagnan's actions than meets the eye, we must convinve the others that Athos is dead.”

Porthos humphed as he continued, his steps long, Athos cradled in his arms as they entered the garrisons yard, the way the men silenced and moved aside made Aramis realize that they had heard rumors and gossip already. Porthos took the steps two at a time and kicked the door to the infirmary open. Aramis started working at once, pulling at Athos ruined clothes resorting to his knife to cut the leather and fabric to expose the wound. The door slammed open, Treville rushing in taking in the scene, shock written over his face.

“Is it true? d'Artagnan did this?”

“Yes, the little bastard shot Athos! He betrayed us!” Porthos hissed as he helped Aramis to pull the shirt away, Aramis pressed a wad Treville handed over against the wound, he felt the bullet just beneath the skin, but also a fractured rib, but his suspicion was confirmed. The Hispanic man gave Treville the note as he moved Porthos hand onto the wad, walking over to collect the tools he needed for the surgery.

“'Tell everyone he is dead' this is in d'Artagnan's hand, he means Athos?”

“Athos should live, the bullet never even entered his torso, but the bullet broke a rib and there is always risk of infection, d'Artagnan didn't use enough gunpowder. I think his hand is being forced, someone is making him do this,” Aramis said as he used the forceps to pull the bullet out. He cleaned the wound as Athos came around, he quickly pressed a hand to the mans mouth to mute the cry, and Porthos and Treville held him down. “Easy, it's alright,” Aramis smiled at his friend, “I will remove my hand, but you must be quiet.” Athos nodded once under his hand. “Captain, some laudanum, 20 drops,” Aramis ordered as he moved his hand aside, pushing Athos hair back with his hand, the captain collected a small black glass-bottle from the locked case in the corner, measuring 20 drops in a cup, adding some water before swirling it to mix it, Porthos and Aramis helped Athos up a little as he took the mug, Treville's hand steadying his. 

“d'Artagnan?” Athos asked his words slightly slurred, as if he was drunk, and Aramis looked up at Porthos, unsure on what to say. 

“He, he isn't here,” Aramis said as he waited for the drug to take effect, putting the musketeer asleep, “I think someone forced him, he sent a note. We need to convince everyone that you are dead, but you will live, the wound is painful but not deadly,” Aramis hurriedly said the words, but he was unsure how much the groggy man understood as the gray-blue eyes slid close again. He straightened and started working on the sluggishly bleeding wound again, cleaning it with vinegar and explored it again to make sure that he didn't leave anything that might fester behind. A couple of neat sutures later and the trio set out to bandage the wound, Porthos held him up as the other two wrapped Athos ribcage.

“The boy that gave me d'Artagnan's message was from the Court of Miracles, the one who feigns to be crippled, without an arm,” Aramis said as he covered Athos body with a blanket, Porthos was still blistering with repressed anger, and Treville put a hand on the burly mans shoulder.

“Are you in control of yourself, Porthos?” he asked, the captain had apparently used the time figuring out a plan of action and as the dark-skinned musketeer nodded. “Good, you still have your contact net in the Court of Miracles, right. Then go there, unseen, ask for your friend to aid us, we can't be noticed doing this. Get them to keep an eye out for d'Artagnan, but silently and hidden. Have them look for Constance Bonacieux and Milady de Winter, warn them of how deadly that woman is. She hates Athos and d'Artagnan and with cardinal Richelieu's death, she is running wild.” Richelieu had passed away in his sleep the previous week, Treville actually suspected that the lethal woman was behind it somehow. “Aramis, you will stay here with Athos, I will make arrangements to move him to another location, if he wakes again, keep him quiet.”

Porthos placed a hand on Aramis shoulder as he got up, nodding at Treville as the man left the room.

“If you are wrong about d'Artagnan, I will deal with him, not you, understand?”

“I understand, but I do not think I am mistaken,” Aramis was praying to God that he was right, for the alternative made his very soul ache.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a surprise to many that Porthos, well known to be burly, loud, drunkard, was Treville's ears and eyes on the street, but of course, only three people beyond the captain and Porthos knew of the arrangement. The musketeer captain had seen a quality in him that most would have missed, his years on the streets of Paris and the years he had spent as a mercenary and scout were priceless. Porthos had contacts in Paris's under world that the late cardinal could only dream of, if the man had known he would have fought Treville for him, but the cardinal had been blind to that quality, seen only the color of Porthos skin and only heard his laughter, dismissing him as a fool and a braggart. 

Porthos returned to the Court of Miracles, his visits more frequent now that Fleur, he still called her Flea, was a member of the 'Guild' council, the 'guild' of beggars, thieves, cutthroats and whores, Flea, however, was the one that ran the network of information. She was his friend, they were each other's first lovers, even if it nowadays was more sex than love, and a friendship cemented in something stronger than steel. He had dressed in his 'street clothes', torn washed out rags before heading to the Court, asking the beggars on the way there to keep their eyes and ears open. 

"Simona told me that there was trouble in your neighborhood," Flea said behind him, her blond hair was hidden under a hood, her eyes lacked the usual playfulness, she knew more than she let on, as usual, she never met him this far out of the court before, dressed as one of her beggars, she was worried.

"How much do you know, and what can you tell me?" Porthos asked as she joined his step.

"Your friend Athos was shot, by your other friend d'Artagnan, and Mouse took a message to Aramis and you. Mouse also reported that d'Artagnan is wounded. Pippin is keeping track of him; he is the most nimble one I have available in that part of town at the moment," she said with a sigh, part of her loved the new co-operation with Porthos, the death toll had actually sunk since the near destruction of the Court.

"Thank you, I need more help," Porthos said quietly, as they sat down on a corner.

"If you can pay I will lend our forces to you," she grinned at him; he always paid her for these jobs, never for sex.

"I will arrange it, as always," Porthos didn’t grin, he was too worried over the situation, to angry at d'Artagnan, even if his hand was forced he should have asked for help, Porthos had taught him how to contact him through the guild-members, he had used Mouse! Why hadn't the little dimwitted idiot of a hothead come to him! Porthos inhaled deeply gathering his wits. "I need eyes to look for Constance Bonacieux and Milady de Winter," he gave her two sketches made by Aramis much earlier, "madam Bonacieux has auburn hair, gray eyes, about your height, feisty manners, and she is the woman d'Artagnan loves more than anything on this world. Milady de Winter, dark hair, green eyes, about this tall. That woman is a killer, no conscience, cold, very dangerous so tell everyone to stay well clear of her."

"Alright," Flea smiled as she handed the two sketches to a passing youngster, who had listened in, it would be about 15 minutes before the information had spread throughout the city. "Now, you need a drink," Flea said as she handed him a leather bag from under her skirts, uncorked for a swig before handing it over to Porthos, who took a mouthful as well.

"It's good stuff, where did you steal this?" he asked before taking another sip of it.

"Me to know and you to keep guessing; can't give you all the details after all."  
Porthos smiled at her cheek as he handed the bag back, he needed all his wits with him for the rest of that day. He though back at the shooting, he had only had eyes for Athos, and he hadn't even seen that the Gascon was wounded, hadn't even known until Flea had told him. He felt a sting of old familiar guilt, he needed to save his friends.

"Where is Pippin now?" Porthos asked as he got up pulling Flea up by her hand.

"Eastern quarters, the old area, at least according to the last report that came back to me. Are we heading out there?" Flea asked as she loosened her hidden knives, a small grin forming at Porthos affirmative nod.   
The dark-skinned musketeer moved forward, easily avoiding contact with other people even in the thick; Flea was on his heels, his bulkier body forming a wake. Sometimes they paused as a member of the guild scurried close giving Flea new information.

"Porthos, Zeiska went to the Bonacieux's, the tailor is dead, and by the looks of it he had some help with the hanging, this was made by someone outside the guild, but do you want them to remove the tracks of assistance?" Flea whispered to him, giving more worry on his already anxious mind. This mess went worse by the minute, and he wondered how deep d'Artagnan was sinking, if he was involved in Bonacieux's death as well, but he decided to go up on a thinner limb of trust and nodded to Flea, who in turn snapped her fingers at the runner. "It probably wasn’t him, Porthos, he is too kind," the spymaster said as she took his hand in silent support.

"I didn't see him capable of shooting Athos this morning, yet he did," Porthos blurted out, anger staining his words as well as worry. But Bonacieux death was untimely for the Gascon, and hiding that the man had any help to his death needed to be removed.

“We'll see when we find him, right? You will ask him some questions before you kill him?” Flea asked, a slight unease in her voice, she had seen Porthos at his worst, at his most cold phase of life, unlike his brothers he had killed without any mercy, without any remorse.

“I'll ask him alright, but if he doesn't answer accordingly or quickly, I will beat the answers out of him,” Porthos grunted as they continued to the east part of the city.

Porthos spotted the Gascon, before Flea did, but she grabbed him before he could move forward.

“Let's just watch him for now, he has a destination in mind,” she ordered, seeing that Porthos was seething just at the sight of d'Artagnan, Porthos looked at the younger man again, the right side his brown leather jacket was covered with blood and he walked bent in on himself. He was in pain, obvious pain, and Porthos felt his anger ebb out a bit, and he nodded to his friend. The Gascon had to stop every now and then to rest, he left a bloodied hand-print on the wall, Porthos anger bled into worry instead, even if the boy had fired at Athos, d'Artagnan still was his friend. Moreover, Porthos knew that something was up, it was as clear as the sky above, but he still wanted the answers.

The Gascon leaned against a wall, dropped his gloves, and stuffed his knife up the sleeve, and then he covered his hands with blood again, before moving again. 

A silent thud made Porthos look at the spy that had appeared silently at their side, Pippin, the wildhaired boy.

“That woman is in the graveyard on the end of the street, the one we shouldn't approach, she is probably waiting for him,” Pippin reported as Flea handed him the wineskin, the boy took a sip as he sat back on his haunches. “I think she's alone in there, but she is armed, at least a pistol. What do you want me to do madam Fleur?” 

“Go back to the others, keep your eyes open for the other woman, the Bonacieux woman,” Flea said patting the lad on the back, and the wildhaired child nodded before scampering up to the roofs again. “Now then, sneak after your boy, yes?”

“Come on, lady Flower, I want some answers soon,” Porthos agreed as he followed Flea towards another entrance to the graveyard.


	3. Chapter 3

The plan he had made had been wild, born from desperation and panic when that woman had approached him, told him exactly what she expected of him and exactly what she had; Constance. Athos dead before nightfall or Constance dead with their unborn child, she had admitted to the murder of the cardinal and Bonacieux, both killed with a poison that was hard to track. d'Artagnan had run through scenarios in his head for the coming hour, it was only midday when Milady de Winter had sought him out, so he had some time available to plan this at least partially. Milady also warned him that he was being watched so he didn't dare contact anyone. 

He did however not wish to kill Athos; after all, the man was his family now, so as the young musketeer loaded his pistol he didn't use half as much gunpowder as he usually worked with, the bullet would be slow, not penetrating deep. Desperate plans and scenarios flitted through his head, what if it was too much or too little? It had to look as if Athos died, or at least that the wound was lethal, he had to have some help. He came to a decision, he had to tell Aramis somehow, he looked around his small quarters, he had ink and parchment so he hurriedly wrote the short message down, waved it in the air, before rolling it up tightly, using a bit of leather tying it. He would need to get the message to Aramis as well, he would do that outside the garrison, one of the messenger boys Porthos used, the ones from the court of Miracles, Porthos had taught d'Artagnan the hand signs, and some of the mishmash language the 'Guild' used, hopefully his watchers wouldn’t think much of him giving a child a coin as he walked to what would mean the end of him. 

The musketeer hoped that Aramis would understand that his hand was being forced, that he had to do this, for otherwise his action would give him a bullet in the head, he knew that the Hispanic man was the best shot in the regiment.

"Athos!" he called out his challenge across the market, a good public place, his friend turned, seeing that d'Artagnan has aiming at him, bewilderment clear on his face as he brought his hands up in a halting fashion, the universal way of showing surrender. "Fight me!"

"What are you doing d'Artagnan?!" Athos demanded, his voice carrying beyond the market, people were moving aside.

"I said fight me!" d'Artagnan insisted again, his hand shaking and anger in his voice, he needed Athos to fight back at least, he could not bring himself to fire at his friend without him aiming a weapon back, could not do this in such cold blood that Anne de Winter wished from him.

Athos' eyes narrowed as he pulled his own pistol, it was clear to the Gascon that he was unwilling to aim at a man he considered a brother. He gave a sigh of relief as Aramis and Porthos sprinted into the marketplace, Aramis would know what to do afterwards.

"d'Artagnan! Take sense of yourself!" Athos pleaded, but the Gascon could not back out f this, there was no way for him to save them all from that woman if he lowered his weapon.

"What are you doing? You are friends!"

"What is going on?!" Porthos bellowed, d'Artagnan noted that neither of them moved into the line of fire even as Aramis took a tentative step towards him, he nodded at Aramis as he pulled the trigger. The second shot drowned his out, luckily but d'Artagnan dropped his pistol, covering the hot pain that ripped through his lower right side. The blood seeped past his clutching hands as he heard Porthos cry out Athos's name and as he looked up the dark-skinned man was holding Athos against his chest. Had d'Artagnan misjudged the load? He prayed that he hadn't. The Gascon met Aramis dark gaze, the hurt look in his eyes causing a deeper wound in him than the bullet from Athos pistol, but he had to leave now, she had told him where to go after he had done the deed, killed the man he called a brother.

The young Gascon breathed as deep as his wounded side allowed, unlike himself Athos pistol had been fully loaded with gunpowder and the bullet had torn straight through d'Artagnan's lower right side, but he hadn't even stopped to bandage it, he had to reach his destination.   
In his heart d'Artagnan knew that Athos snakelike wife would kill him and probably Constance as well so he needed a plan, something that would work in his favor. The wound was painful, he was unable to straighten up fully and he chewed his lip against the agony, the metallic taste spreading in his mouth, the new wound in his mouth gave him an idea. Just like the birds that feigned injury to lead their potential predators away from the nest, he would feign that his injury was worse than it was.   
He wasn't concerned much of his own life, it was Constance and their unborn babe that mattered the most, he hoped that the others would look past his misdoings if he died and care for them. He just had to kill Anne, otherwise she might return to take vengeance yet again. He discarded his gloves on the street making sure that his hands were covered with blood again before stuffing his short knife up his left sleeve.

He turned into the graveyard that the woman had ordered him to, aggravating the wound in his lip as he did; blood slowly dribbled down his chin. Anne de Winter was waiting for him, in front of a vault of some nobleman's burial, dressed in black, her face so cold, no beauty remained, she had her own pistol aimed at d'Artagnan, but lowered it when she saw his bloodied, pallid state.

"Is he dead?" her voice was icier than her face, and she laughed, a horrible sound, as d'Artagnan nodded, going to his knees, coughing, making the blood spray from his lips. "And you are about to join him, how fitting. The only man I ever loved killed by the one he sees and protects as a brother; you must admit that I make good plans."

"Constance…" d'Artagnan gasped, he didn't' need to fake that panicky sound, he couldn't see his love anywhere, and it frightened him, what if the bitch had already killed her, his eyes filled with unbidden tears as Milady approached him. She had put her pistol away, so sure about herself, as she crouched down next to him, she pulled his head up from his chest with a gloved hand.

"I haven't killed her, yet, but she is not in the most comfortable of places, cold, dank and dark," Milady smiled as she caressed his cheek very gently, d'Artagnan looked past her at the vault, surely not even this scum of a woman would do something like that. "She cried for you to save her as my men closed the lid, she is feisty and strong, but not even she can move a solid block of marble," she continued, clearly taking pleasure in the agony in the musketeer's eyes. "I will lay you to rest next to her, after all, she stopped screaming a while back, but don’t worry, I made sure that she wouldn't die from lack of air."

d'Artagnan shook his left arm, the knife sliding neat into his hand and he just knew that killing Anne de la Fére would end this, would allow him to save Constance. He stabbed the knife upwards from just below her sternum, her green eyes widened in momentary surprise, before she coughed, a fine mist of blood spattered across d'Artagnan's face as he twisted his blade.

"I am not sure you have a heart, but this should kill you!" he growled as he pulled the knife out, the murderess stumbled backwards, and collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood, she was drowning in it, but d'Artagnan didn't care. He got up on unsteady legs, and walked towards the tomb she had exited, he wasn't listening to the dieing woman behind him, he only had Constance in mind now.

“Constance!? Constance!” he called her name as he leaned against the doorway, seeing the stone coffin, but it wasn't a marble slab covering it, tears started to fill his eyes as he sank to his knees. This wasn't the tomb, there were no signs of anything being touched, the dust was thick on the dark grey granite slab. “no, no, no, no, no, no!” he hit the stone floor with his fists, anguish-filled cries echoing over the cemetery.


	4. Chapter 4

When Porthos heard the screams from d'Artagnan, he and Flea ran in the direction, he pulled his pistol and rapier when he saw Milady de Winter's body, spread eagled over a grave, the hole in the front of the black dress made him sure that she was dead.

“Check on her!” he called to Flea as he continued into the crypt where he heard d'Artagnan sobbing. “d'Artagnan!?” the young man was slamming his bloodied fists to the stone floor, ignorant of the fact that the older musketeer had entered behind him. “d'Artagnan!” Porthos knelt next to him, placing his hand in front of him, and the dark haired man looked up at Porthos, d'Artagnan's ashen face was a horror mask of torment, blood was running down his chin and the anger against the Gascon left Porthos immediately. The musketeer checked the still bleeding wound, and then he took d'Artagnan's chin, seeing the wound on the lip, it wasn't from the injury in the boys belly, but the boy's skin was clammy and the eyes blank with pain and shock.

“Constance! That woman, Constance is in a tomb, I don't know where! I killed her!” d'Artagnan screamed as Porthos pulled him close. Flea came up to them, as always more silent than a mouse, she sat down on her haunches next to them, careful not to touch d'Artagnan.

“The woman out there is as dead as they get, now d'Artagnan, did she say anything about the tomb?” Porthos gave Flea a look at the question, he wasn't sure that d'Artagnan could wrench himself out of the state he was in enough to answer, the boys eyes were like those of scared and feral cat. 

“d'Artagnan? Anything at all about the grave?” Porthos tried again, shaking his friend a little, “every bit helps.” d'Artagnan looked around, loosening Porthos' grip as he did, he bit his lip causing more blood to trail down his face.

“Marble, she spoke of a marble grave! The slab isn't completely closed,” d'Artagnan said as he and Porthos got up, the older man lending a steadying hand on the others elbow.

“There aren't many crypts in this cemetery that still have marble on their tombs, a lot of it have been pilfered away,” Flea put in looking back out into the old graveyard, it only had about 20 over ground tombs left, the rest had been moved when the church had been rebuilt. “I'll check this side,” she looked at d'Artagnan, who was already stumbling out into the darkening afternoon and then back at Porthos. “Mouse will have let Aramis know what has happened when Pippin sent word.”

“Thank you Flea,” Porthos said as he went after the Gascon, went past him, “d'Artagnan, you take the four graves here, call out if you see any marble alright!” the bleeding man nodded as he went for the first. 

They had been at it for a while, when Flea called out for Porthos. The taller man sprinted across the cemetery, into the vault he had heard her cry out, d'Artagnan staggered towards them as well. Flea was pushing at a grey marble slab, with all her might, Porthos had spotted what she had spotted, fresh blood on the carved side of the stone coffin, and he cried out, putting all his might and pushed the stone aside. It fell to the tiled floor on the other side with a resounding crack, as it broke in half, Flea had already jumped up on the side, crouching down into the grave, pulling the limp woman towards her. d'Artagnan stood in the doorway, his eyes on Flea and Porthos as they lifted Constance up placing her on the floor, Porthos kneeling down to feel a breath of life, anything, and the the Gascon's eyes fell to her hands, her nails, they were broken and bloody. He took a tentative step forward, his own bloodied hand outstretched towards the love of his life, unsure if he dared to touch her.

“Constance? Oh God, oh God please, please...” d'Artagnan pleaded with his god as he sank down to the cold floor, staring at Constance's pale face, the torn nails, the slight bulge at the low of her belly. “Porthos? Please, please,” he was begging now, as Porthos straightened with a sigh of relief.

“She is breathing, but she will need a doctor, or Aramis,” the musketeer said as he gathered the unconscious woman into his arms, “as do you.”

“Athos, I didn't kill him, did I?” Porthos eyes turned to black ice at the hesitant words, making the boy shy away as Flea dressed the wound, winding part of her skirt tightly around the younger mans midsection.

“He was still alive when I left the garrison. Believe me, d'Artagnan, we will have a long talk about making plans when we get out of this!” Porthos bellowed, the sound made d'Artagnan wince and Flea give a bark of laughter, it was clear that Porthos had kept the words back since they had encountered d'Artagnan. “Come on, we need to get moving.” Flea put d'Artagnan's arm around her shoulders, giving much needed support as they started walking, following Porthos back towards the inner city.

After about quarter of an hour, if the church bell was something to guide them, d'Artagnan's body gave up, Flea sagged under his now limp weight and she had to lay him down on the street.

“Porthos,” she called out to the musketeer who was several steps ahead, she cradled d'Artagnan's head in her lap, a hand on his clammy forehead. The dark-skinned man looked at them and returned to Flea's side, crouching down, moving the woman in his arms so he could touch the Gascon with his hand. “He is alive, but I doubt that we can rouse him now,” Flea spoke silently as she put a hand on Porthos arm, making the burly man sigh in thought. They were still over an hour's walk from the garrison, if it was safe to bring the two injured there, the Bonacieux house was closer, but there was a dead man hanging in there, it would be more to explain to people. Treville's house was the closest safe place Porthos could think of, and he suspected that the captain had brought Athos there, guarded by Aramis and some of the inner circle. 

“One of us must get more help, captain Treville's house,” he said rather reluctantly, as leaving Flea behind with the couple made him uneasy, but if Treville was out, the valets wouldn't obey Flea whereas him they didn't dare to oppose, the fact that he also had met Treville's wife and children helped.

“I will stay with them, and we will be safe, lay madam Bonacieux next to him, he needs the warmth,” Flea just smiled, she knew him too well. Porthos covered the couple with his cloak before taking off towards the captains house at a jog.

 

Treville's wife was the one that opened the door, the middle-aged woman, she was cute rather than beautiful, but she had a good heart and she loved her husband. Now she smiled at him as she moved aside to let him enter the hall.

“Madame Treville.”

“Porthos, my husband is not here at the moment,” she started apologetically, and rather louder than she usually spoke, closing the door behind Porthos. “Come, we have Athos in the sitting room,” madame Treville said as she showed the musketeer into the room. 

They had moved a bunk into the room but Athos was sitting up on a settee, pillows behind his back, Aramis and the captain were in the process of talking Athos down when Porthos entered. That much was made absolutely clear of the duos facial expressions and the silent mask that resembled the stubbornness of a mule on Athos.

“Well?” Athos demanded as he laid eyes on the new arrival, “did you find him?” Of course Athos had been more worried about d'Artagnan than anything else. 

“We found him alright, but I will need to tell that tale after we get them back here. captain, I'll need to borrow your cart, and Aramis, if you and Madame Treville will be able to keep Athos still,” Porthos said quickly, “and a tarp to cover the passengers.”

“Therese,” Treville's wife left the room to make the preparations as the captain again turned to his spy, “a little more explanation, please Porthos.”

“d'Artagnan's hand was forced, Fleur is waiting with him and madame Bonacieux, it was the de Winter woman, as we suspected. They both need medical help,” Porthos said looking at Aramis, who pushed Athos down into the pillows, with the slight irritation that spoke that he had done this repeatedly since the former count had awakened.

“Athos, I swear I will drug you again, if you don't stay put!” the exasperation and threat in Aramis tone made Athos back down and the man gave a grunt of agreement. 

“What about the woman?” Athos asked as he pressed a hand to his wounded side.

“d'Artagnan killed her, she is out of your life now,” Porthos said as Aramis pulled his bag over his shoulder, Athos sighed, his eyes had something mixed between grief and relief. Treville exhaled audibly that only contained great relief.

“I will keep Athos under control, the horse and cart will be ready for you, go,” Treville said as he handed Athos a glass of wine, Porthos put a hand on Athos shoulder before following Aramis to the street.

“How bad is it?” Aramis asked as Porthos jumped up on the cart, Aramis jumped up the back, it was clear that the Hispanic had refrained from asking this in front of Athos.

“d'Artagnan is alive, but he lost a lot of blood, Constance is alive as well, but there is complications about her. de Winter trapped her in a tomb, she must have been terrified, and I think she is pregnant. Both of them were unconscious when I left them with Flea” it was all Porthos said, but he had seen that the woman had changed from her tight bodice to one that he saw around pregnant women. It would explain more of d'Artagnan's desperation that afternoon, and it was actually more than likely that the child was d'Artagnan's, Constance had been married to Bonacieux for several years yet no children.

“Pregnant?” Aramis voice was incredulous, “you think what I think then? That d'Artagnan is the father? He isn't as innocent as he look our Gascon.”

“Aramis, don't, I am already angry enough with him, the little idiot,” Porthos said as he steered the wagon down the emptying streets, most people were heading home. “Why didn't he come to us?!”

“That is painfully clear Porthos, you know that. If Athos 'wife' took Constance as a hostage, and confronted d'Artagnan with the facts and then gave him an ultimatum; 'kill Athos or she dies, alongside your unborn child, if you talk to anyone, they'll die'. She probably hoped that they would kill each other. You forget that I met that woman, more than once, she had no soul left to blacken,” Aramis said looking down on the pebbled dirt street.

“Still, he could have found a way to communicate with us...”

“He did, he managed to get the message to me, and through that we managed to solve this,” Aramis interrupted what might have become a long harangue, “now we just need piece everything whole again.”

The run that had taken Porthos half-an-hour took then 15 minutes with the cart. Flea was still sitting next to the couple as Aramis jumped of the cart and sprinted the last ten feet and slid to his knees next to the the woman, Flea had cut the bands on Constance's bodice, the woman was pale but breathing with ease, he had an inkling that is was shock and terror that had put her into unconsciousness. He would try to rouse her with salts, later, now he felt her torso for any hidden injuries, but he felt nothing but the bulge of her usually slender waist. He motioned for Porthos to lift her onto the cart and then looked over his little brother. The Gascon was a worse sight, the hastily applied bandages were bloodstained and as Aramis put his hand to the lads forehead the clamminess made him bite back a swear word. He looked beneath the bandages, the bullet had torn through the boys lower side, but it didn't look as if it had traveled into the abdomen, but the way it was still bleeding. d'Artagnan was loosing to much blood and Aramis would need to perform surgery that was near beyond his capabilities.  
Porthos handed Flea a heavy purse of coins and kissed her goodbye as Aramis carefully lifted d'Artagnan up on the cart, putting the boys legs on the drivers seat before covering them with the tarp.

“Don't be a stranger Porthos,” she said as she disappeared into the shadows and Porthos took the reins.

“Well?” Porthos asked as he had discussed matters with Flea whilst Aramis had performed the examination.

“I will need to stop the bleeding in d'Artagnan's side,” Aramis said as he looked ahead, he couldn't do much out here on the road, “I think you are right about Constance being pregnant, but what is that husband of hers going to say.”

“Not much, he is dead. The runners spotted him hanging from a rafter in their house, they swiped any tracks of him having help, didn't I mention that?” Porthos said calmly, the kind of calm that usually made Aramis wish to slap his friend over the head.

“You forgot that little tidbit, but that news is both good and bad, who would have killed him, he wasn't more than a fool,” Aramis said as he leaned down and checked on the two under the tarp. 

“Well, I will need to talk to lady Flower about that, Flea can probably find out, just need to pay her for that, but it was likely Milady's doing.”


	5. Chapter 5

The groan from the cart alerted Porthos and Aramis that one of their passengers had woken, and the Hispanic musketeer turned slightly on the seat to touch d'Artagnan's leg. The young man was shivering under his touch, and Aramis climbed over the seat and kneed between the two beneath the tarp.

“Hey d'Artagnan,” Aramis said very calmly, feeling d'Artagnan's forehead for signs of fever, but the boy was still clammy, and the eyes barely focused at him, under the dark tarp, but his hand gripped Aramis' with surprising strength. “We are going to take care of you, it will be alright, Constance is next to you,” Aramis promised with the same calm voice, putting the her hands into d'Artagnan's. The youngster smiled weakly and his eyes drifted close on their own accord again, making Aramis check for his breath again.

“Well?” Porthos rumbling low voice reached him, the worry making him clip his words.

“Alive, both of them,” Aramis said as he rejoined his brother on the seat, they were not many minutes from captain Treville's home, where he could make sure that both Constance and d'Artagnan remained with the living. 

 

Raoul was waiting at the stables at Treville's house, the captain had sent for the musketeer, knowing that he would keep teeth over tongue and not talk of what was going on at the captain's home. But the surprise and bewilderment on his face as Aramis and Porthos arrived with two persons hidden on the cart, one being the now wanted d'Artagnan made him stutter as he took the reins of the small horse.

“But? Why are you helping him? He killed Athos! Your friend Athos!” he whispered as Porthos lifted the ashen-faced youth from the cart, his head lolled against the burly mans shoulder, d'Artagnan was shivering. 

“Raoul, we'll explain everything, and it will get clearer, I promise you that,” Porthos said as he passed the shorter man, Raoul still looked somewhere between fury and bewilderment. Aramis carried Constance into the house where Therese was waiting with a lamp to guide them, the lady of the house ushered the musketeer to the right.

As Porthos walked into the house, d'Artagnan stirred in his arms, groaning from the pain, the unfocused dark eyes flitting over him and then the Gascon started to flail about. The Treville's oldest son ushered Porthos into the sitting room where they had hidden Athos earlier, said musketeer was now sleeping on the settee, a blanket wrapped around him. The curtains had been drawn over the summer windows, and the fire was crackling in the grate, candles in abundant to give needed light. The captain was preparing nails for in the fire, and the table had been cleared, a piece of waxed linen placed on top, Porthos placed his armload of injured, agitated boy onto the table, as Treville stepped over, helping hims to restrain d'Artagnan.

“d'Artagnan! It's alright, calm down!” Treville pleaded as a hand struck him, without much force, he pinned the waving arms down as Porthos put his wieght on the youngsters legs. Tears were escaping the dark eyes as he whimpered, Aramis was there then, his hands encircling d'Artagnan's face as he whispered ensuring words into the Gascon's ears, and the writhing body calmed.

“Let's get his clothes of, shirt and breeches, Aramis, you prepare what you think you'll need for the surgery,” Therese ordered as she entered the room, the captain's wife was wearing an apron over her evergreen dress and had she the house medical kit under her arm, it was clear that she was far to used to care for injured men. Porthos nodded and started unbuttoning the leather breeches, pulling them off, kind of relieved that d'Artagnan wore smallclothes, it was bad enough to undress him, Treville and Therese were removing the boys jacket and shirt the woman unabashed as she started cleaning the wound, cries of pain escaping the injured man. “Can we give him something against the pain? We have laudanum and the tea I got from the apothecary,” Therese asked as her husband and Porthos held on to the pained youth. Aramis came over, his sleeves rolled up and he examined the Gascon, careful not to give him more pain.

“Can you tell us where you are?” he asked, as his hand felt the pallid face, d'Artagnan focused on him, Aramis knew that d'Artagnan had met Therese Treville at least once before, and that he had delivered some messages to the captains house at several occasions as well.

“cap- captain's house,” the answer was barely audible, and slightly slurred, but Aramis nodded, the boy had some of his faculties with him, but he was wondering if he dared to give him any drugs, laudanum was strong, he had seen men slip into a sleep that lead to death when they were as weak as d'Artagnan was at the moment. But the tea was possible he figured, it was one they used to give sleep, not that it helped too much against pain, but again, d'Artagnan's weak state would probably work in their favor, if nothing else, it would give the lad some rest after the surgery.

“Yes, we are in captain Treville's home, Athos is sleeping peacefully in the corner. Madame Treville, can you prepare some of that tea?”

“Constance?” the desperation bled through the pain and confusion, and Aramis brushed the hair from d'Artagnan's face.

“I left her with our daughter and Jean's mother, they will watch over her, she is resting comfortably,” Therese answered the question as she prepared the tea at a small table near the fireplace, again, a sign that the household was far too used to injuries was that there was three containers of boiled water cooling next to the grate and one pot hanging on the hook in the fire. “Aramis, this will need to steep for a while and chill before we can give it to d'Artagnan.”

“I need to stop the bleeding,” Aramis said, the pool of blood was growing under the injured mans midsection, he inhaled to calm himself as he started cleaning the wound, “madame, can you give me an iron?” Therese nodded and brought an iron, grasped in a pair of pincers, giving it to the surgeon who burned bleeding vessels, forcing both Treville and Porthos to hold d'Artagnan down. The Gascon didn't scream, but the color drained even more from his face as Aramis continued to stop bleedings and cleaning the wound, Therese kept giving him new irons. 

Porthos gave a sigh of relief as Aramis straightened up after stitching the wounds shut, and dried the pained tears from d'Artagnan's eyes with his sleeve, the small sign of comfort made the lad turn into the hand.

“Let's sit him up, it will be easier to get the bandage in place,” Treville said as he and Porthos carefully hoisted d'Artagnan into a more upright position, their hand steadying him as Aramis wrapped bandages around his midsection. Therese came over to the table with the tea, and coaxed it into the lad, who tried to turn his head away, but the strong-willed woman didn't take no for an answer and after a few minutes the cup was emptied.

“Lift him over to the bed, he will rest better there than on the table,” Aramis ordered as he washed his hands clean from blood.

Porthos pulled the blanket up around the now sleeping Gascon's shoulders, and sat down on the mat next to the bed, they always did this, kept an eye on the others when they were injured. “I am going to look in on Constance,” Aramis said as he checked on the other present patient for signs of waking or fever, but Athos slept, Aramis always found with surprise that Athos looked so much younger when sleeping, he was the oldest of them, with a few years, he had come to love d'Artagnan as a little brother. They all did. “See if I can rouse her with some smelling salts.” Porthos nodded as Therese put a up in his hands, tea, he wasn't to fond of the stuff but her stern gaze made him drink nevertheless. 

 

Constance was sleeping, fitfully, whimpering under her breath as Aramis sat down on the bed next to her, the captain's mother looked a little suspicious of the man as he had entered.

“Jaq, how long has she been dreaming?” Aramis asked the young girl who was sitting on the other side of the bed, a hand in Constance's.

“A while, but she didn't starts mumbling and crying until just a few minutes ago,” the girl answered, looking up at him, Aramis was always careful around his captains daughter, after all, he could remember her near 8 years ago, a child who was trying to run, but still more successful at falling over her own feet. Jacqueline had fancied him ever since he had bandaged her scraped knees at the garrison, she had been 6, and she had kissed his cheek afterwards. Of course, the captain had seen it, and of course captain Treville had made certain promises of bodily harm and very painful reactions to any action towards Jacqueline. “I think she is going to wake up soon, how is... d'Artagnan? And Athos?” she said with a slight blush, Aramis was sure that she had a thing for the youngest as well as him now, poor captain Treville. 

“Both are sleeping,” Aramis said as he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, he was tired, the day had been long, stressful and so hard on his soul that it ached.

“You should get some rest too, monsieur, you look as if you are about to fall over,” the matron Treville said looking at him, “you are no good to any of your friends in this state, I told Florian to prepare a few mattresses on the floor of his room, the next chamber to the right. Go, I will keep an eye on the girl, if something happens with her or the boys someone will wake you.”

“Yes, madame,” Aramis conceded, knowing that she was right and brushed his hand over his friends forehead one last time before getting up and leaving for the promised rest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for letting you hang waiting for this... well yeah, the summer is, if possible, the most busy time of year for me, with both my work and more farm work... and broken down balers and unmentionable things breaking apart... sorry but here is another chapter!

Waking up to a burning pain in his side was uncomfortably familiar, as if the pain had been there for too long a time and he couldn't bite back the groan of agony escaping from his lips. A hand, calloused and colder than his own skin, touched his cheek and he turned into the touch, opening his eyes and seeing his captain sitting next to him, Treville looked tired but still satisfied. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked silently as he carefully wiped away the fever-induced sweat from the youngster's forehead with a wet rag. d'Artagnan was unsure what to answer, he was in pain, yes, rather unsure of what had happened to place him under his commanders personal care, and the Gascon had the most horrid feeling that he had done something very wrong. He blinked a few times trying to remember what had happened and with a start he remembered milady de Winter, what she had done, what she had forced him to do, shooting Athos and the cemetery and he sat up with a cry, a cry that swiftly turned into a gasp and he curled up trying to get the blaring pain in his right side to diminish. Treville held him steady by the shoulders as the dark-haired youth fought to bring his breathing back in order, the Gascon's eyes were screwed shut but tears still forced their way out and down his fever-rosy cheeks. “Easy, calm slow breaths, in through your mouth and out your nose,” the order was simple, and d'Artagnan fought to obey, one shuddering breath at a time. 

“d'Artagnan?” it was Porthos voice, worry creeping into it and the Gascon felt the bed dip a little as the other musketeer sat down on the bed, gripping his shaking hands in his bigger and steadier ones. “Should I wake Aramis?” the question was directed to the captain who must have shaken his head, “should I get some of that draught then? His fever is going nowhere but up.”

“Do that, and bring another blanket while you are at it,” Treville said as he moved to sit behind d'Artagnan to give him extra support against his chest. Porthos disappeared and the loss of his steady presence made d'Artagnan whimper, he was frightened and in pain, but the captain simply caressed the damp hair, making hushing sounds in the distressed youths ear. “It's alright d'Artagnan, just breath.”

d'Artagnan forced his eyes open again, the room was lit with a few candles and the fire in the grate where Porthos was reheating the tea slightly. He could see Athos sleeping on a settee, the noble's chest was rising and sinking, making the youngster sag with relief, the captain kept caressing his hair, as if he was calming a nervous horse or a child, but the youngest musketeer was lulled by the motion. 

Porthos returned to the bed, sitting down carefully to not jostle the bed to much and the teacup in hand, he smiled at the Gascon, as the youth grasped his free hand with his both. 

“This is a tad on the bitter side, but I expect you to empty the cup without giving us any trouble,” the burly musketeer ordered as he put the rim of the cup to d'Artagnan's lips. The liquid was tepid, and very bitter, and he nearly choked on it as he fought to swallow it, but the small action of emptying the cup left the Gascon exhausted and he slumped against Treville's chest as an insistent cough left him near breathless. Porthos placed another cup at his lips, this filled with cold fresh water and he drained the cup quicker and with less coughing than the draught. “d'Artagnan? Can you answer some questions?” Porthos asked, keeping his voice calm and reassuring, but it still made d'Artagnan's insides twist with anticipation and fear, and worse it brought fresh tears to his face. Athos murderous wife, holding the pendant he had given Constance, the one remembrance he had of his mother, and goading him with the murder of the cardinal and monsieur Bonacieux, and that she was going to kill Constance and their child if he didn't obey her commands. “d'Artagnan, please,” Porthos said again.

“She promised to kill them, there was no time, she had me watched, red guards... Constance's husband, she killed him as well as Richelieu,” the words bubbled out without hindrance, “had to shoot Athos, or she would have killed Constance.” Another part of the womans threat came to mind, one that was towards the crown, she had threatened to enter the palace and poison the queen, a revenge towards the musketeers she felt guilty to her fall from grace. It had something to do with Gallagher the man who had tried to assassinate the queen, Athos had recognized the emblem of forget-me-not, as had d'Artagnan, from his first morning in Paris when the woman had tried to frame him for the murder of the Spanish emissary. They had confronted Richelieu who had given them de Winter, mostly to protect himself, something the musketeers had accepted since they all knew how important the man was to their king. But all their plans had gone awry with the cunning womans escape into the underground that was even beyond the Court of Miracles. “The queen! She was to poison her too!”

“The queen? Porthos,” Treville's voice was a order and the dark musketeer nodded as he got up and left the room at a run, the captain moved from behind the injured boy, laying him down against the pillows, leaving him alone with the sleeping Athos. The shame in the Gascon burned brighter, how could he have missed telling them the threat to his queen, she who trusted him as much as Constance did. Unbidden tears filled his eyes as he thought Constance, even if she survived would she ever trust him again, would any of his friends ever trust him again. He bit back a cry as he fought to sit up again, a hand pressed to his side, if sitting up caused so much pain, standing up nearly him to his knees. d'Artagnan bit his already bloody lip, new blood dribbled down his chin as he steadied himself against the wall, stumbling towards the door. He had no place among the musketeers anymore, not after this, not after his betrayal.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke from a sound, a slight crashing noise and as he peered around the sitting room he saw d'Artagnan leaning against a wall, and Athos saw that the boy had tears running down his far too pale cheeks, blood was trickling from his bitten lip. The noble got up, the tightly bound ribs making his breathing slightly difficult as he silently made his way across the wooden floor. The boy had shot him, but Aramis had told him repeatably of what was in the note and what he and Treville suspected and then what Porthos line of spies had discovered; that it was Anne that was behind this entire mess, his murderous wife. It was Athos fault more than d'Artagnan, the poor boy was just another sacrificial piece on Anne's chessboard. 

“d'Artagnan,” he said, his voice low and careful, and the Gascon's head swiveled around and the dark eyes struggled to focus on him. Athos just stepped closer pulling the wounded youngster to his chest, hugging him close, “I am so sorry, so sorry,” Athos whispered as his own tears threatened to slip free, the boy started to sob weakly in his arms. “I failed to protect you from her, I am sor...”

“I betrayed you! I could have killed you! Constance and the queen, all were in danger because of me, that I trusted her!” d'Artagnan sobbed, the words barely audible between gasps for air. “I failed everyone!” the Gascon sagged in Athos arms and the older man groaned slightly as his broken rib shifted a little. The noble moved back towards the bed, d'Artagnan little more than a dead weight in his arms now and as he lowered them both down on the narrow cot. Athos saw the bandages around the youth's waist, fresh blood tainting the fabric and he sighed, he had a memory of his own gun firing as the pain had struck him, a reflex really. This wound was much worse than his own, if the pallor and weakness in his little brother was any indication.

“You did not fail anyone, you did what you had to do to protect us, and that is exactly what you did, protected us,” Athos said to the still sobbing youth, a steady hand around the thin shoulders. The door creaked open and Aramis, bedraggled from recent sleep, and too little of it too, and when he spotted the duo on the bed he hurried over and kneed in front of them, the Spaniard's hands seeking out both of his friends foreheads, feeling no fever in Athos but Athos saw the frown at the insistent burn beneath the younger ones skin. 

“Where is the captain and Porthos?” he asked Athos who shook his head since he had no idea where the two men had disappeared to, he had been sleeping the laudanum off. Aramis frowned slightly as he pulled a wet cloth from the nearby bowl, wrung it out before he started to wipe the sweat from d'Artagnan's brow. The boy jerked back, his hands coming up and he tried to deflect Aramis careful treatment. “d'Artagnan, we need to get your fever down, it is far to high for comfort,” Aramis said as he took the shaking hands into his own, the tears still falling from the boy's eyes, Athos saw how sad Aramis was, how the gentle-hearted man fought to not cry as well.

“Don't deserve it, I betrayed you!” the boy panted out, curling in against Athos as he started coughing weakly, the pain evident in the tense body.

“You did not betray us, you acted to save us, she had Constance, she had her own men trailing you and us as well, you did the only thing you could, the only thing available to you,” Athos said stroking the damp hair, trying to speak reason with the boy. Aramis continued to wash the pearls of sweat, tears and blood from the Gascon's face, hands steady even though his entire being portrayed tiredness.

After a while the boy seemed to have cried, panicked himself into a stupor and he slumped completely limp against Athos making Aramis catch him so that he wouldn't fall from the bed.

“Let's lay him down again, how is your wound?” Aramis asked as he took over the limp weight from Athos, who moved aside to help lift d'Artagnan properly onto the cot, the Spaniard checked on the wound, satisfied when the saw that the bleeding wasn't picking up.

“I will heal,” Athos said, he knew it was true, the rib was broken, but it was tightly bandaged by Aramis expert hands, there was no surgeon he trusted more than the other musketeer. “What about him?”

“Avoiding a straight answer as usual... if we can manage to keep his fever down and get fluid and food into him he should live. But his guilty feelings are the worst thing working against us now. Constance is sleeping, she should recover but she suffered a severe shock and fear from being trapped in a tomb. I am unsure about the baby, but both madame Therese and mame Treville says that babies are sturdier than they seem at such early state, and they also say that she would have lost the babe already,” Aramis said as he lifted Athos shirt to check on that wound as well, but Athos paled at the word tomb, had d'Artagnan's lover been incarcerated in a tomb by Anne, was that one of the reasons why the boy had run near straight into death to save her. More so, a child? Their youngest was to be a father to a child?

“A tomb? Madame Bonacieux is pregnant and Anne trapped her in a tomb?” Athos felt his heart stutter, if the roles had been reversed, or rather if Anne had approached him with the same conditions he would have done exactly as d'Artagnan, no doubt about it. He hid his face with his hand, the feeling of hatred mixed with the conflicting pain of loss and love, the agony he always had tied to Anne who now was confirmed dead, she would never harm him or his friends again. “It is I who failed, I should have made sure she died that day, she would not been able to do this is I had done my duty,” Athos exhaled, but a sharp tap on his hand made him snap out of his building distress.

“I forbid you to wallow in this Athos, we need you too much for you to turn into that drunkard of a creature that we so painstakingly put back together so many times, it is not an option now. You are not to be blamed for what de Winter did, neither now nor in the past, she was the one that lied first, she was the one that slit your brothers throat. You never forced her hand, she was very capable to do harm on her account,” Aramis was glaring at him, and Athos knew he was right, his two brothers had forced him to stop drinking at times, drying him out, with all the horrors that it involved. They always kept an eye on him, never allowing him to drink himself into a stupor and their little brother had partaken in that act of late as well. “You need to stay together for our family now, he needs you, we need you, you are finally free from her influence, she will not hurt any of us again,” Aramis said on a gentler tone, “we will heal, it will take time, but it will happen.”

Aramis got up and pulled the settee closer to the bed, making Athos lay down again, but the green eyed musketeer took d'Artagnan's hand into his, hoping that his grip would ensure that the youngest of them slept well, that he knew that there was nothing to forgive. Aramis sat down on the chair he had left the captain in, pulling a blanket over himself and Athos.

Athos nodded as Aramis clasped his hand tightly, as he realized the truth in Aramis words, they would heal with time, they just needed to stay together, the four Inseparables.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos followed Treville into the room where they had left d'Artagnan and Athos, and seeing all of his sleeping brothers, Aramis in the chair, d'Artagnan on the cot and Athos across the settee their hands linked together. Treville clapped his shoulder, more patted his shoulder really.

“Should I get another chair for you?” Treville asked him as Porthos moved past him, pulling his hat and jacket off, and settled himself against Aramis knees, determined to just sleep the rest of the night next to his family. Treville put a log on the dieing fire before draping Porthos with a blanket, the dark-skinned man pulled it close and rested his head against Aramis, and fell asleep at once.

It was the scent of food that awoke him, the morning light spreading into the room through the now opened windows, Aramis was still sleeping behind him, as were the other two, Athos was still holding d'Artagnan's hand in his but Aramis had his hand entangled in Porthos short curls, all safe. Porthos carefully freed his hair from Aramis and got up, stretching to get rid of the kinks in his back, he then felt the pale boy's forehead, the fever was still present but maybe a little lower than in the night. He straightened and crept out of the room silently and went to the kitchen, where the captains mother and a maid were preparing breakfast, the stern elderly woman looked up at him, pointed at a chair and he obeyed sitting down without a question.

“There will be some porridge and bread ready in a few minutes, in the meanwhile,” the matron placed a cup of broth in front of Porthos on the table, “you did not eat properly yesterday, you too need to keep up your strength.”

“You are too used to the way of us soldiers, mame Treville,” Porthos grinned lopsidedly as he sipped the steaming liquid, it was good, probably duck, and he felt the heat spread through him and invigorated him. “How is Constance?” he asked as he warmed his hands on the cup, he was worried about the woman, she was as good as one of them, and she was a good friend.

“She awoke during the night, Jacqueline and I managed to calm her down enough to get her asleep again. Constance was afraid that one of you had been killed, especially her beau d'Artagnan. It was a horrible thing she went through,” mame Treville said as she pulled the porridge from the flames and stirred. Porthos could only agree with her, he had been trapped in a small room within the court when he was a child, but this, barely able to move and a skeleton as the other occupant, it made him shudder. 

“She is a strong woman, a fighter even, she'll pull through,” Porthos said after a short silence, she had to, if she didn't it wouldn't matter. d'Artagnan would never survive her death at this point.

“To be around you musketeers she must be a strong-minded woman, anyone else would have been driven insane,” mame Treville said dryly as she refilled the cup of broth. “I was married to a soldier, and mothered another, and my grandson is vying to join the musketeers when he is old enough as well.”

Porthos grinned, Florian was as quick as his father with the blade, not strange since he was trained by the captain since he was old enough to hold a training blade. But Florian would be yet another one they would have to worry about, just like d'Artagnan, the boy had to much fire in his blood.

“When Florian reach that age I hope that the captain will have retired, or he very well might die from the shock of repeated scares,” Porthos said with a slight laugh, keeping watch over his three brothers was hard but imagine the horror f having your son among the ranks.

“I think my son has planned for someone to take his place before Florian becomes a musketeer, it is not easy for us women folk either, waiting at home, not knowing if your fathers, husbands, brothers or sons will return from battle or not,” mame Treville said as she finished the porridge. “I see how my son looks upon the four of you, he is brandishing you four to step up to lead, he loves you boys as if you were his own, never forget that Porthos du Vallon,” mame Treville was well-aware that Porthos name was taken, but her slightly sad smile made Porthos blush. She had a soft-spot for her sons men, as the rest of the household.

“Aramis is the healer, Athos the leader, I the spy and d'Artagnan the one who is loyal beyond a doubt,” Porthos agreed, then grinned at mame Treville's knowing smile, she had made him realize that however much he tried he could never not forgive the boy for his actions, d'Artagnan was loyal to his friends and family, he had none left but the ones gathered under this house. “Thank you mame Treville, you make me see sense in the craziness off yesterdays mess. The boy had no choice, and still managed to salvage a situation that could have been disastrous.” 

The old woman just smiled as she prepared hot water, Porthos finished the broth and got up. He had all intentions to go and wake his friends but the matron stopped him.

“Take some broth for the two wounded, it will be easiest for their stomachs to start with fluids,” she said pressing two cups into his hands, that was a clear order if any. “I will be along shortly with some more food for them and Aramis, it would probably be good for him as well if he had some broth to help settle his belly before something more substantial.” Porthos just nodded and left the kitchen with the bouillon.

On entering the sitting room he noticed that Aramis and Athos were both awake and Aramis was changing the bandage around Athos chest, the wound was clean but the bruise was rather impressive, and Aramis was carefully rubbing a salve into the skin and wound. Porthos placed the two cups on the table and went over, handing Aramis the clean bandages, the Spaniard smiled a little at him as he placed a clean compress against the wound and started winding the fabric around Athos chest.

“I think that the wound is settling nicely, no fever and the rib seems to stay were we wish,” Aramis said as he tied the bandage in place. Porthos helped Athos to pull his shirt on, the man's stoic face was just slightly pale now and Porthos grinned as he pressed the steaming cup into his unresisting hand.

“Compliments of mame Treville, I think she is adamant that you empty it,” Porthos said, knowing that Athos usually disliked to eat the first few hours after waking. “It taste good though, and I agree with her, we didn't exactly eat our share yesterday. The other cup is for d'Artagnan but I think you need it Aramis, I'll get another cup for the lad,” Porthos glanced at Aramis, he looked peaked and drawn, everything that had happened was catching up to them all, and Aramis had performed two surgeries to save lives the previous day. The man accepted the cup and sipped it, encouraging Athos to do the same, Porthos hid a smile behind his hand at Athos facial expression, no longer stoic but a slight tinge of green.

“Just sip a little, it will help settle your stomach, you need to eat,” Aramis said stretching out a hand and patted Athos arm, the noble nodded and sipped the mug carefully, Porthos had spotted a good sized pot just in case the mans belly rebelled. Athos managed to down the broth, color returning to his face as the nausea died down, and Porthos sighed with relief, it was a standard with an injured or too hungover Athos, eating breakfast meant vomiting. He made a mental note that bouillon was easily accepted for his friend, and that he would make sure that there was some at hand in the future. Aramis shared the look of relief as he slowly emptied his own cup, the hazel eyes glancing over at the still sleeping d'Artagnan.

“Constance woke during the night, I think she was rather hysterical but Jacqueline and mame Treville managed to get her back to sleep,” Porthos admitted, knowing that the others would want to know. “Is he still feverish?” Aramis nodded as he placed his cup on the table, looking a bit more awake and alert.

“We'll need to wash him down and change the bandages, I couldn't see any damage to his insides but the wound was left to exposure a long time. He is young, strong and stubborn though, it will work in his favor,” Aramis said as he got up and walked over to the cot to wake d'Artagnan. Porthos wasn't surprised when d'Artagnan's hand flew up and gripped Aramis as the man touched his shoulder, the dark-brown eyes confused and blank with fever. “It's alright d'Artagnan, we are going to sit you up and I am going to look at your wound, you think you can manage that?” Porthos moved to help Aramis with the task, d'Artagnan paled as they got him into a sitting position, Porthos placed one hand on the boys shoulder to help him keep steady, the other cradled the back of the head. Aramis swiftly removed the old dressings and then wetting the gauze directly above the wounds since they stuck to the damaged skin, Porthos could feel how the body leaning into his hands shivered from kept back pain and the lads breaths came in short bursts. 

“Easy, try to breath normally,” Porthos said applying just a little pressure to the hair beneath his hand, the boy nodded, but was unable to regain his breath. “In through your mouth, out through your nose. In and out, good boy,” Porthos stroked the damp hair as he looked at the exit wound on the back, Aramis neat stitches clearly visible against the bruised slightly swollen flesh, only a few drops of blood visible, probably enlarged by the water Aramis had used to get the pads away. 

“I need to clean it and put some ointment on it, it will numb it a little and aid with the healing,” Aramis told d'Artagnan who just nodded, unwilling to speak. Aramis started to clean the injury, and Porthos could see that he was trying to be as light of hand as possible but d'Artagnan cried out, sagging back against Porthos hands, eyes screwed shut in the now ashen face. The boy entirely lost his capability to breathe, and panic was setting in, Porthos sank down on the cot, wrapping his arm beneath the lads armpits, keeping him in a sitting position as Aramis gripped the Gascon's hands.

“d'Artagnan! Calm, deep breaths! You can do it!” Aramis said with force, but his voice was laced with worry, and Athos suddenly claimed one on the boys hands, as Porthos held the youngster up, the boy was breathing too quickly, too shallowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could not resist a cliffie...


	9. Chapter 9

He hadn't been very communicative when Aramis and Porthos woke him up, tired and his side a slow burning pain, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aramis explaining that he needed to check on the wound made him wish that he could just slip back into that uneasy sleep.

Porthos and Aramis helped him up, their hands cold and bracing against his clammy skin, and Porthos held him sitting up, he could feel himself nearly black out from the movement and was glad for Porthos steadiness. When Aramis removed the bandages he glanced down, as always Aramis work was infallible, but it hurt so bad that he could barely breath, it was as if even if he breathed, no air reached his lungs. Porthos hand against his head tightened a little.

“Easy, try to breathe normally.” God know, d'Artagnan tried, but it was just gasps in and out. “In through your mouth, out through your nose. In and out, good boy.” His friends gave him a little time to regain some air as Aramis proclaimed the need to clean and salve the wounds, and the Gascon nodded, still not enough air to speak. It had to be done, he was too aware that unclean wounds could fester and lead to death by the infection and inflammation that settled, but as Aramis started he couldn't bite back the cry, the pain was bordering on torturous and he seemed to have forgotten how to even breathe, his head lolling down as he was unable to keep it up, his eyes shut but a bright reddish light was pulsating behind his lids. Porthos was behind him, keeping him upright as Aramis had his hands, grounding him, telling him to breathe, but it was no use, he simply couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. A bigger hand claimed his, and Athos was suddenly there.

“Breathe with me d'Artagnan, in and out, in and out,” Athos voice was quiet, quiet enough to force him to focus, fighting to get more air. The continuous coaxing allowed him to calm his breathing to a more normal rate, even though he still felt bereaved of air. “Good, in and out, as easy as that, in and out,” Athos continued, d'Artagnan gripped Athos' hands tighter, trying to ward of more pain, but it hurt never-the-less, like a white-glowing poker and he could feel tears trickling down his cheeks. He forced his eyes open, Porthos strong chest against part of his back, the taller man was careful to avoid putting any pressure on the Gascon's right side.

“hur's,” his voice was barely audible, raw with pain and disuse, Aramis hand pressed against his flushed cheek, carefully leaning d'Artagnan's head back onto Porthos shoulder.

“Can you give him something for the pain?” Athos asked the Spaniard, who frowned as he got up and left d'Artagnan's field of vision.

“Opium is risky with wounded that have trouble breathing, but I can't see how we can treat the wounds when d'Artagnan is in so much pain, pain is an enemy as well in these situations. Ten drops of laudanum...” Aramis decided as he returned with a bottle and a cup, meticulously measuring up the drug and then stirring it in the water, “here, drink this d'Artagnan, it will help against the pain,” Aramis ordered as he out the beaker to the Gascon's lips, and d'Artagnan swallowed the medication, but he was shaking from exertion when he had emptied the contains.

The door opened and mame Treville entered, d'Artagnan recognized her well enough after delivering some papers directly to the captains home in the past, the elderly woman carried a tray in her hands but she deposited it on the cleared table and approached them. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and then looked at Aramis.

“Have you given him something for the fever? It is rising I think, I will get some willow-bark tea for it.” The woman stood, but Aramis made a halting motion.

“I think d'Artagnan needs some of that bouillon foremost, mame Treville. He needs something to fill his stomach with,” Aramis said but d'Artagnan just felt trepidation about eating, his belly was already agony, and he felt nauseous, drinking more might make him throw up, which actually terrified him. Mame Treville handed the long-haired man a cup and he seemed to notice d'Artagnan reluctance. “Small sips, it will help, and mame Treville makes a superb broth.”

He was almost dozing off when Aramis was satisfied with the amount of broth he had managed. He felt very lethargic, in lack of a better word, and his grip on Athos hand had lessened a great deal, and he felt his eyes flutter shut nearly against his will.


End file.
